


and i looking up at the stars

by anderfels



Series: what stranger miracles [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Drunken Flirting, Drunkenness, Emotions, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining, Party, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Slow Burn, Teasing, Unresolved Sexual Tension, bad singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 18:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17147018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anderfels/pseuds/anderfels
Summary: “Don’t come to a party. Don’t want a drink. Don’t see no problem sittin’ out in the woods alone all night. At aparty. Like you’ve been kicked outta bed for crumbs.”“From the tragedy of your singing, I figured it was a funeral I was missing.”Sean's party set in Chapter 2. Arthur looks for Charles, attempts flirting.





	and i looking up at the stars

**Author's Note:**

> so rdr2 was the most beautiful game i've ever had the privilege of playing, arthur the most wonderful protagonist i've known in years, and it's prodded me into writing some words !
> 
> i've got ideas for a whole series for these two gay cowboys, spanning their evolving romantic relationship throughout the game (and after!) so i'll try my best to work on writing some more!! i figured i should start at the beginning though, so. here we are. yeehaw.
> 
> p.s. there is method to the walt whitman stuff i promise

__

_ Give me the splendid silent sun, with all his beams full-dazzling;   
Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard;   
Give me a field where the unmow’d grass grows;   
Give me an arbor, give me the trellis’d grape;   
Give me fresh corn and wheat—give me serene-moving animals, teaching content;  
Give me nights perfectly quiet, as on high plateaus west of the Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars; _

 

Hooves disturb the brush.

Lenny recognises the mare before her rider, calls a greeting, calls to the clearing behind him that Arthur’s finally back, and Arthur can see his smile as Lenny shoulders his rifle. Doesn’t wait for Arthur to push through the bracken and fern, sitting into his trot, reins in one loose tired hand.

A fox lifts its head as his mare trots close up the track, and skitters with a growling yelp, a brush of copper in the tangled brown and green. Arthur’s eyes flick to it instinctively, just a second, then back to the camp ahead of him, hips swaying with his horse’s movement as she slows, and stops.

He takes a moment to stretch his legs from the stirrups and rub the stubborn tuft of mane at Magpie’s withers, attention drawn to another shock of red hair across the camp. Much louder than a fox.

Sean is gesturing with the clumsy grace of someone already well on the way to being plastered, every slight over-shift and counterbalance of his weight threatening to topple the upturned crate he’s using as a podium. He’s loud enough for Arthur to hear the cadences at the ends of phrases as he untacks Magpie, carefully propping her saddle and bridle over the hitching post, slipping a simpler halter over her head. She nudges his hip as he rearranges her forelock, stretching her neck long and low, shaking out her braided mane with the satisfied weariness of a day’s ride.

“Even you, Arthur!” Sean calls from his pedestal, and Arthur doesn’t know what it is he’s been implicated in, but he salutes with two fingers anyway, and Sean laughs at the rude gesture the salute turns into a second later.

Magpie and Taima both wheedle a sugar cube each out of Arthur’s palm - the older Appaloosa hitched on the next post and knowing full well Arthur’s affection for her had grown exponentially since their time in the mountains, and he treated her with the same gentle adoration as his own horses. Charles must have made it back safely, Arthur is glad to know. 

He pats Magpie’s neck one last time before he joins the others around Dutch’s tent, listening to Sean applaud his own triumphant return.

It’s a party. Apparently. Mr Maguire is back, and they’re celebrating. And admittedly, Arthur can’t help but feel like they deserve a night just to _be_. After Blackwater. After Colter. Existing in the gaps between worlds, and far too aware there’s less and less air to breathe the further east they run. It drains his energy. Like the sky itself is lower than it used to be, and the vultures are circling closer at the edges of his eyesight.

A night just for them will do them all good, the fire heat and the woodsmoke and the rye whiskey. Glad to be warm and fed and alive, them and the singing night birds and hooting drunks. Arthur hasn’t ever been much of a singer, but he’s always been a rather adept drunk at least.

Javier strikes up The Louisville Maid, and Sean’s singing before he even sits down, grinning like he wasn’t strung upside down by his ankles a few hours earlier, a long day drawing finally to a close. The sunset makes way for stories and more songs, campfire smoke and swirling embers on the late spring breeze, good food and better drink. Laughter rings over the sound of the guitar, then Uncle’s banjo, and between songs Dutch’s phonograph crackles and hisses like the logs in the fire.

It’s an unhurried evening, clear of clouds and crowded with stars. The whiskey flows much faster than the slow Dakota far below them, and keeps Arthur’s belly warm enough even away from the campfire. He drifts between groups, belonging to none, losing track of how many bottles of beer he’s had and forgetting most of the words to the songs he joins in with at the bottom of them.

“I owe ya, Arthur,” Sean slurs, clinking his bottle against the one in Arthur’s hand, a whiskey he’d just opened. “I owe ya one.”

“Y’owe me several,” Arthur says dryly, and Karen laughs, seated in Sean’s lap with her own bottle. She’s wearing Sean’s hat, swaying slightly to the sound of singing from the campfire, her cheeks bright blotched pink.

“Ahhh.” Sean throws his hand in Arthur’s direction and scoffs, swigging from his bottle. “I know you love me, Arthur Morgan.”

This time Arthur laughs, no more than a huff. “Was all Mister Smith’s fault. He’s a...a do-gooder. S’a bad influence.”

“Shoulda left him to hang, I say,” says Karen, and Sean pouts like a scolded toddler. “That Charles is a… He’s a… A lot to answer for! He has. Shoulda...let you swing, you… _You_.”

Sean replies, but it’s lost to Arthur, suddenly hyper focused on the one thing missing from his night. Charles. Arthur frowns.

Where _is_ Charles?

He hasn’t seen him since they’d left the bounty hunters planning on lynching Sean, yet Taima’s presence shows he must be around somewhere. Walking out of camp without a horse wouldn’t be the wisest idea.

Arthur scans the camp. Dutch is dancing again with Miss O’Shea, the first time Arthur has seen Molly look so content in months, and Uncle is singing with the other girls, Bill drinking with Javier and John at the campfire. The good Reverend is gesturing animatedly at Lenny, orange hair mimicking the flames licking at the stew pot. At the other end of the campsite, Taima is grazing next to Magpie, Arthur can see her spotted coat in the dim firelight, but Charles himself is nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps parties aren’t his idea of fun. Arthur can relate to that.

Or perhaps Arthur’s singing was too unbearable to deal with. Arthur can relate to that, too.

He excuses himself from Sean’s table and his ever optimistic attempt at seducing Karen, picking up another whiskey bottle on his way past the chuckwagon. The least he can do is find Charles and offer him a drink. It is a party after all.

Past Dutch’s tent, Charles’ simple bedroll is empty. The only fool even attempting to get any sleep is Hosea, stubbornly curled under several blankets, a pillow clamped around his head. Arthur stifles a fond smirk and orbits the camp, slow but steady, weaving between the wagons and lean-tos, catching the tail end of one of Uncle’s many rude songs. Everyone is laughing.

“Hey Morgan, maybe finish one drink before you start another, huh?” John says, jeering at the sight of the two bottles in Arthur’s hands as Arthur nears the main campfire once again, the ends of his words bumping into each other in a drunken rush. Arthur studies him for a second, as if Charles could be hiding amongst the group and Arthur’s just too far gone to notice.

“They ain’t both for me, genius,” Arthur says, and keeps walking. John scoffs, voice more hoarse than usual. 

“If it’s Karen you’re after, I’d wait a bit til she’s done with Sean.” Arthur pulls a face, waves his hand at John’s crudeness.

“Fuck off.”

John laughs as Arthur leaves, again passing the poker table, now empty of Sean and Karen. Pearson calls a greeting, and Miss Grimshaw waves her beer at him in mock salute. 

Still no sign of Charles.

He likes Charles. It seems like too much to admit even in the privacy of his own mind, but it isn’t untrue. He’s a good man. The sort of man who deserves better than the world they live in. Men like that aren’t common, especially in their line of work.

Hosea’s lean-to still only shelters Hosea himself, steadfastly attempting to get some sleep as the party marches on around him. Arthur comes to a stop by Magpie’s hitching post and leans against it, sipping from his bottle as he again scans the camp, legs crossed in front of him.

There’s singing coming from the far side of Dutch’s tent still, and Arthur hums to himself, low in his voice, thick with whiskey and beer and at least a small amount of good cheer.

It must be past midnight. An owl screeches somewhere beyond the trees to the east, and the breeze rustles the undergrowth shielding the camp from the trail to Valentine, a blanket of low ferns and bracken, shelter for the talkative wild turkeys and blacktail rabbits. The horses are all grazing or settled in the grass, their soft sounds comforting Arthur far more than the singing and drinking.

It’s a pretty enough spot, if much too far east for Arthur’s liking.

He’s fishing in his jeans pocket for a mint when he first hears music, and not from the direction of the party, but from the treeline behind him. Magpie takes one, Taima another, having wandered closer from her nighttime graze to bat her eyelashes and twitch her ears at the man she has twisted thoroughly around her figurative little finger, and Arthur sucks the last mint for himself, wrinkling his nose at the odd taste of minty alcohol on his tongue. The music continues.

The others are all still busy around the camp. Lenny has joined the singing, and a part of Arthur wants to cover the kid’s ears and send him to bed, shield him from song lyrics too rude to publish. There’s no one else missing. He looks out into the woods.

It’s a harmonica, he decides, and swallows the skittering feeling in his chest cavity, like taking a jump on the wrong stride and lurching out of the saddle. A mix of fear and thrill, hands too high on the bit, weight too forward, willing his shoulders back and down, tipping into counterbalance as the hooves meet the ground and keep going. He crunches his mint, and wills his legs into walking.

Arthur had always wanted to play an instrument. Like so many other things, it had fallen by the wayside, pushed away into a category of dreams and fantasies and hopes that weren’t really made for folks like him. Arthur Morgan, outlaw. Aged 36.

Dreams dreamt up by younger men.

Still, he loves hearing others play. Doesn’t understand how fingers that look and work just like his can create anything so beautiful. In the same way he doesn’t understand electricity. Or Spanish. Mysteries of the universe.

The music gets louder as he makes his way down the track away from camp, wary of every footstep, as if the snap of twigs and brush of leaves will drown out the lonely sound, scare it away. He’s careful with his weight, not yet drunk enough to wobble, but not quite trusting himself all the same. If anyone was going to trip and fall into a raspberry bush holding two bottles of whiskey, it’d be him.

He wouldn’t hear the end of it.

The harmonica drifts from further off, the gang’s singing lost to the trees, the campfires and lanterns little more than an orange glow behind him. Horses graze in silhouette, wood smoke swirling through the firelight, cutting Arthur off from the camp and pushing him on into the dark and the disembodied music, picking his way between patches of moonlight like an odd game of hopscotch. The night seems still here, the nocturnal animals silenced, by the music or by his presence Arthur can’t tell. There’s only the soft rolling melody of the harmonica, the occasional wobble and shudder in pitch. Blue notes in the black night.

He stops once he determines where the sound is coming from, once he’s close enough and recognises a human’s dark outline, sitting on the ground amongst an ancient tangle of tree roots. Charles’ back is leant against a trunk three times as wide as his torso, and if not for the music, Arthur isn’t sure he would have noticed him, the moonlight only catching his features when he tilts his head at a certain angle. His eyes are closed; he hasn’t heard Arthur coming.

For a moment, Arthur simply watches. Charles’ hands move, bending notes between his lips, and Arthur can’t help but stare, awkward and inadequate, the pleasant buzz in his head not quite loud enough to drown the sense that he’s intruding, that he’s walked into something beautiful and private that he isn’t worthy of experiencing.

Charles is a good man. Sure and brave and sincere like the folksong between his mouth and hands.

Arthur swallows. A handful of young leaves skitter around his boots, blown by the breeze, and he’s sure he should turn around and leave. Return to his off-key singing, drink until his accent has the same phonetic quality as the string of a banjo breaking, and the singing slips into a register so low in his chest it’s barely audible to human ears. Remove himself from something so clearly not meant for him.

He should leave.

But...

He doesn’t. 

Arthur clears his throat, like a fool. The music stops almost instantly, the sudden silence making him wince, mourning its loss at once. He shrinks in the dim light, moves to rub the back of his neck, take off his hat, both- and then realises his hands are full of whiskey. Abandons the movement halfway through.

_Fool_.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough from the alcohol, small amidst the ancient trees. Insignificant.

“Hey,” Charles replies, watching him now, face stoic. Arthur shifts his weight.

“I, uh…” He gestures with the unopened whiskey bottle, as if it alone will explain what he’s doing there in the middle of the night interrupting Charles’ solitude. “Sorry, you don’t gotta stop, I just- I uh...ain’t meanin’ to intrude- Uh. Fuck.”

“How drunk are you?” Charles asks, and the tiny hint of a smirk caught in the moonlight is surely the best thing Arthur’s seen in weeks, since the green after the snow. He breathes; relief.

“M’not even that- Barely. A little. Shut up, I just-” He gestures with the bottle again, desperate. “Wondered...if you wanted a drink. You uh... You wasn’t at the party, is all.”

Charles considers him, head tilted slightly to one side, expression unreadable. “Sure,” he says, and tucks his harmonica away somewhere inside his vest, close to his chest. “You wanna sit?”

Arthur does, grateful, dropping heavily down against the same tree trunk with a sigh, knees creaking. He offers Charles the whiskey bottle, and watches as Charles levers off the cap between his thumb and the blade of his knife with a soft “Thanks”.

They sit in silence for a few moments, Arthur nursing the last of his own drink, leaning his head back against the tree. He sets his hat on the floor beside him so as not to squash the brim, drags his fingers through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead. It’s getting just too long for his liking. After the last trip to Valentine ended with him being thrown through the saloon’s window and inhaling a half tonne of sheep shit and mud on the road outside, he hadn’t really thought about heading back in to get his hair trimmed.

Charles is watching him again when Arthur lifts his head, and Arthur quickly busies himself with the label on his bottle, picking idly at the paper, scrambling to find some words with which to string a sentence together. “So uh… You play real well.” He nods at where Charles put his harmonica away. “I ain’t heard you play before. You’re good.”

It strikes him how little he truly knows about Charles. Back in West Elizabeth, before Blackwater, he’d been so busy planning his scheme with Hosea, away from camp more often than not. Charles had only been with them for a few months, and Arthur had always been slow to warm to anyone. Slower still to trust.

He’d like to know more about him. He’d like to get to know Charles.

“Don’t usually have an audience,” Charles says simply.

“Sorry, I- Honest I wasn’t tryin’ to eavesdrop-”

“I don’t mind.” Charles cuts him off before he can spiral, with the same barely-there smile, just a slight movement of his lips. Arthur’s not sure he’d have noticed it, before. He’d have taken Charles’ still expression as frustration, or indifference. Impatience. A clue that Arthur was taking up far too much of his time.

As it is, he feels just comforted enough that he doesn’t want to hightail, betting on a risky hand - that maybe his presence isn’t just being tolerated. Maybe Charles doesn’t mind him being there. He drains the last few drops of his whiskey, breathes the taste in. 

It’s not like him to pry, but maybe he’s drunker than he thought. “Your old man teach you?”

Charles hums to say yes, takes a glug of his drink. “It was...one of the few things he enjoyed, after my mother was gone. Apart from drink.” He huffs, looking blankly at the bottle in his hand. “I like it. Clears my head. M’not the best, but.” A shrug.

“Best player I ever heard,” Arthur says, with the conviction of someone who’s drunk a lot of alcohol. He’s not slurring, but he’s sure he’s being even less eloquent than usual. “Not that- I don’t know shit about music.” His bottle is used for punctuation. “But I’d… I’d sure like to listen more. If you ever get a likin’ to uh...havin’ an audience.”

Charles considers him again, the low lilt of his voice, the mousy brown hair falling onto his forehead. “Thanks,” he says, bemused, like something about Arthur is endearing to him. Or surprising, perhaps, Arthur isn’t sure.

They sit quietly again, the woods murmuring around them. Arthur could fall asleep against the tree trunk, he’s sure. Safe enough in Charles’ presence. It’s never uncomfortable to be silent with Charles. There’s no pressure to fill the emptiness; he appreciates that.

He picks at the label on his bottle, until finally he remembers why he’d ventured over in the first place. “Thanks for uh. Helpin’ with Sean,” he says, watching as Charles catches a drop of whiskey from the rim of his bottle with his tongue.

“No problem. He’s...something. But I kinda missed him.”

Arthur laughs, dry and low. “Me too. Gives me a headache.”

“So much _talking_.”

“It don’t stop. Ever. He’s like one of them…them li’l rat-huntin’ dogs. Don’t quit yapping.”

Charles huffs a laugh, letting his head fall back against the tree. He tucks his hair behind his ear, like liquid in the moonlight, and Arthur pointedly tears the entire corner of his bottle label in one, screwing up the paper between his fingers.

“I… I meant it though. Thanks,” Arthur says. “You ain’t been with us long, but...you do more’n most of us.”

Charles looks at him, that same expression on his face. As though he’s searching for something behind Arthur’s words that he’s not entirely sure is there at all, or even what exactly it is he’s looking for. “You- You deserve a night off, that’s- That’s why I was- Well...” Arthur wiggles his empty bottle. “You wasn’t around, so I was...lookin’ for you. Ain’t a party if someone ain’t got a drink.”

The moonlight catches Charles’ cheekbones as he shifts his weight. “I’m...not much of a party person,” he admits. “Someone had to take guard duty.”

“Wh- Wait.” Arthur blinks at him. “You was gonna...sit out here all night?” And Charles shrugs, dismissive.

“Sure. I take the night watch often. I don’t mind it.”

Arthur stares for longer than he should, trying to look less scandalised than he feels. How hadn’t he noticed that before? He could’ve shared some of that duty himself, yet he hadn’t even _thought_ \- with everything else going on, he was glad it was the one thing the others seemed to have handled without his help- setting up the guard rotation. But Charles was just...going to spend all night alone keeping watch, when they were supposed to be celebrating, and Arthur hadn’t even _noticed_ \- He could’ve-

Eventually Charles catches his gaze, and huffs the same small chuckle as Arthur reflexively looks away, meagre but not insincere. Absently, Arthur realises he’s not sure if he’s ever heard Charles truly laugh. Loud and sudden and brilliant.

“It’s not a problem,” Charles says, despite the look on Arthur’s face telling him he doesn’t believe him in the slightest. “I wasn’t...aware you’d miss me that much.”

This time Arthur huffs, tearing off another strip of the label from his empty bottle. He tears that strip into smaller strips, and balls them between his thumb and forefinger, without being aware he’s doing it at all. “Don’t come to a party. Don’t want a drink. Don’t see no problem sittin’ out in the woods alone all night. At a _party_. Like you’ve been kicked outta bed for crumbs.”

Charles smirks again, watching Arthur flick away the tiny balls of paper. “From the tragedy of your singing, I figured it was a funeral I was missing.”

“Ha!” Arthur barks a sudden laugh, letting his head fall against the tree trunk behind him. “Fuck you,” he says, giggling, and only smiling more once he notices Charles is smiling too. A proper smile. Eyes creased at the corners and cheeks round. It doesn’t last long, but Arthur considers it a victory. “I take it back. I wasn’t comin’ to find you, I was just lookin’ for a place to piss.”

“Uh huh.”

“S’true.”

“Sure.”

Charles chuckles again, and they fall back into easy silence for another while, Arthur smiling absently at the canopy of trees above them, the buzz between his ears making his eyelids feel heavy, his shoulders weary, as if holding his head up is a chore. It’s getting slightly chilly, so far from the campfires and so late into the night. Even the animals are silent. There’s no sound of the party back up the track behind them either, but Arthur can’t quite believe everyone has gone to bed just yet. Perhaps just the old timers, like himself.

“So I uh… I didn’t wanna intrude,” Arthur says eventually, snapping himself back from wherever he’d drifted. Insecurity resurfaces and pulls at him, bites at the exposed edges, and he places his hat back on his head with assured finality, flicking away the last shred of paper he’d torn from the bottle label. Forcing himself to gather his reins back up into one hand, collect his overstretched confidence before it shatters. “Guess I’ll...head back. Feels late.” Gingerly, he stands, knees clicking, hand on the tree trunk for balance.

“You good?” The moonlight catches Charles’ cheekbones again as he turns his face up to watch Arthur, highlighting his forehead, the bridge of his nose, the thick bow of his lips. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but Arthur feels giddy just looking at him, sitting on the ground beside him, at the same level as Arthur’s torn, over-patched knees.

The feeling snags again; unworthy of sharing the same space.

“Sure,” Arthur says, thumb worrying a loose strand from the side seam of his jeans. “I ain’t drunk.” Reminds himself to swallow, explains away the flutter in his stomach as the booze and nothing else. He scuffs his boot heel against the ground, unwilling to take up more of Charles’ time and yet also not knowing how exactly to take his leave.

Charles sighs, soft and peaceful, and takes the problem out of Arthur’s hands without even knowing there was a problem. He stands as well, shouldering the rifle propped against the tree beside him, gently pulling his hair out from where it gets caught under the leather strap. “C’mon,” he says, dusting off his jeans with his free hand, starting off back down the trail.

“I ain’t drunk,” Arthur says again, hurrying to catch up, legs heavy. He chuckles, humouring himself before he even speaks. “You ain’t gotta...walk me home.”

He falls into step beside Charles, in and out of the patches of moonlight. Magpie’s splashed white coat is a beacon in the distance, beside Taima’s spotted flank, both mares dozing standing at the hitching posts.

“Maybe I wanted to walk you home,” Charles says as they walk, taking a sip of his half-drunk whiskey. He’s smirking again, that tiny barely-noticeable movement at the corner of his mouth, and Arthur isn’t entirely sure if he’s teasing or making fun of him, or something else besides.

“Huh,” Arthur says. He fiddles with the brim of his hat, tilting it at a slightly different angle. “And I didn’t even buy you dinner first.”

“The drink was nice enough.”

Now he’s sure Charles is teasing him, meeting his gaze beneath his hat and hoping the night disguises some of the pink in his cheeks as a chill and nothing else. 

They emerge from the trees into the clearing on the edge of the cliff. The noise level is considerably less, and there’s several more bodies in their beds than when Arthur left. Sean though - and Arthur could tell it was Sean from Mount Shann - is still singing, more to himself than anything else, sitting on a rock beyond the wagons, looking out over the Dakota. He gestures with a bottle of something, toasting the river, slurring his way through whatever song he’s singing.

It sounds like he’s having a good time at least.

“You...wanna turn in?” Arthur asks as they near his wagon, skirting around the drawn flaps of Dutch’s tent. “I mean- Not… Not with _me_ , I meant- Uhh. Fuck. I shouldn’t...words. Don’t let me words.”

“And you didn’t even buy me dinner first,” Charles says, brushing his hair back behind his ear again, the string of beads in the ends clicking gently together. It’s infuriating, that hint of a smirk. Not quite there enough to be unmistakable, and yet still so obvious to Arthur. So...promising. As though Charles too is hedging his bets, covering all bases with humour just in case Arthur reacts. 

That’s Arthur’s trick.

“You sh...should let loose more often, Mister Smith,” Arthur says. He chuckles the same self-deprecating chuckle, and sets his empty bottle down on the table next to his bed, ready to dispose of in the morning.

At a more reasonable time of the morning, at least.

“That so?” Charles asks. He keeps a respectable distance, thumb in his belt loop, looking over to the main campfire for a moment, where John and Javier are slumped, bottles in their hands. Thankfully, not singing. Then, back at Arthur, unreadable again, eyes warm.

“Sure. It was...nice.” Arthur scuffs the ground with his boot. “Nice takin’ a moment with you. You know? Just...being.”

“Sure,” Charles says. He meets Arthur’s gaze. Nods. “Thanks, Arthur. I’ll...let you know when I’m planning on letting loose again.”

Arthur laughs, waving him off, sure this time he’s being teased. He busies himself with his cot, as if it’s suddenly very interesting and in dire need of his attention, undoing the top button of his shirt, brushing some imaginary lint from his blankets. 

“I mean it,” Charles says, and Arthur turns to look at him again, half stooped over his bed, caught up in the sincerity on Charles’ face, his dark eyes unblinking, and holding Arthur’s gaze like it’s his hand. “Thanks.”

Arthur nods his head, just gently, unsure he trusts himself to speak. “Night Arthur,” Charles says, and flicks his fingers out in mock salute, leaving Arthur’s space, and heading towards his own bed.

“Night,” Arthur replies, soft. He sits heavily on his cot.

From the other side of the camp, Hosea’s voice suddenly shouts, worn and creaking with sleep, “Stop singing and go to bed!”

In response, Sean just sings louder and several times less tuneful, and Arthur smirks to himself as he finally gets ready for bed.


End file.
